Bagatelle Malaise
by Devin Trinidad
Summary: A goddess without a throne, a scarecrow without the mask, and a genius without the solution.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

She's always in locked rooms nowadays.

White, dull, washed out, modern, antique.

She doesn't care anymore. Nothing matters. Not since—

"Miss Amane."

The woman, tired and defeated, looks up from her clasped hands and into the eyes of a young man. His eyes are the clearest of blues and his features are pale with just a hint of rose pink. He's delicate, but there's steel in the way he strides over to her table and stands at attention. He looks down at her like she's a specimen—not that she minds.

She no longer feels anything.

"Miss Amane," the man prods again. This time, there's just a hint of annoyance and genuine curiosity as she refuses to answer. The young man, she notices, swallows down disdain and irritation with a professional air. "I will be your new psychiatrist." He holds out his right hand and the woman belatedly realizes that he's a westerner ( _an American judging by the clear-cut tone and accent_ ) and that during this whole time, he was speaking in English.

She returns her gaze to a hazy spot in front of her, carefully ignoring her companion.

She hears a sigh as he turns away and settles into the seat in front of her. His shadow mars the perfect view of the plain table she had before her, but it no longer matters.

At least, she doesn't think it should matter, anyhow.

"I'm Dr. Jonathan Crane." A beat of silence before he places a device on the table between them. A button is pressed and Dr. Crane's voice robotically enunciates, "Session one with Miss Misa Amane."

.

.

.


	2. Book 1: The Idol

**Book 1**

 **Chapter 1: Her Loves**

Misa has been in love too few times and too many times in her short life.

The first time she falls in love, she doesn't think she's in love.

That's the way it always is with small children.

If she really digs, if she can find it within herself, she can remember a kind smile, the feel of encompassing—embracing—warmth, and the relaxing of heartbeats.

Her heartbeat.

She doesn't remember his name, but she remembers calling him teacher.

He's a grizzled veteran of education, but he's far from a brute. With the children he teaches, he is warm and welcoming. Fights rarely occur, but when they do, he chastises them with a stern, but fond look. He teaches with a firm hand; he guides with a sure mind. He is the ground and the foundation and the walls and the roof above their heads.

Misa feels safe.

She tells him one day.

She tells him in a bright, chipper tone ( _in a voice that hasn't had too many years of articulating words_ ), but she speaks candidly and with enthusiasm. Misa doesn't know rejection, but she knows that the burning behind her eyelids are threatening to overflow with tears.

Is this what love is? To be frightened of uncertainties?

( _She might ponder this sooner rather than later, but she is too young to think so now_ ).

The teacher bends down on one knee and tells her gently ( _always gently because surely that's what he's paid to do, but she's far too young to realize that_ ) that she'll find someone else.

The relief at not being rejected or perhaps scorned flows freely down her cheeks.

She _**loves**_ him.

And then she _**loved**_ him.

Misa loves too easily.

.

.

.

So many names and faces—too many to name, too many to count. There are so many boys, she has so many loves.

So years pass and she falls and falls and falls.

Too many, too few.

All of them, she forgets.

Then, she falls once again.

He doesn't feel or maybe he doesn't like showing that he does, but Misa feels for the both of them. What he lacks in romantic pursuit, he makes up in support.

So when Misa falls ( _to her knees with tears falling down her cheeks while her parents have fallen to the floor and the blood is falling falling falling_ ), he's there to pick her up and let her cry on his shoulders.

( _He's bony and awkward, but he's still and warm under her desperate, smothering embrace_ ).

But comfort doesn't last.

It never does.

When the dust settles and the courts fail to deliver justice, he leads her out of the courthouse with a hand and wishes her well.

Misa falls into an embittered rage and wishes that the officer has done more to help.

She vows not to fall anymore.

.

.

.

She's not falling, but she's no longer standing still.

A new love takes over her heart.

It begins when her parents' murderer has dropped dead. With that final thud of his heartbeat, Misa's heart soars and burns with a vengeance that has been swiftly and silently carried out.

A heart attack, she is informed.

A heart attack murdered him. Not killed.

Misa doesn't ( _wouldn't, couldn't, won't_ ) care about the poor choice of words.

All she knows is that there is now a thrum of urgency in her movements, a senseless and heartfelt devotion that threatens to swallow her whole. It isn't an obsession, oh no.

It is devotion and adoration.

Kira is calling her name. How could she not go to him?

.

.

.

She's safe and secure, her heart having never been so light and so carefree since her childhood. Her hands are stained with innocents ( _innocence?_ ), her eyes glossing from the burden and strain of bearing the "eyes". Yet, she carries on.

Kira, for that is what he is and will always be, is like and quite unlike her previous loves.

He has no love, he has no heart. His very presence screams of intelligence and ambition. Like a roaring hurricane, he bursts with the rage of millions of people who cry for justice. Like the shadowy, dewy mist of morning, he is calm and collected against the darkness of his foes. He is the light bringer; she, the beauty and purity that he must have possessed within.

( _How could he not?_ )

His light never wavers. He burns and burns; she can only hazard a few lingering touches before pulling away. She is scarred and bruised and so, so, so battered by his sheer ferocity—by his cold indifference and cruel mercilessness.

Her heart doesn't care.

She promises him forever. With him, their love in turn makes her immortal.

She never thought, that like a candle, he would burn himself out.

.

.

.

Misa loves and loved, but may never love again.

They tell her that her beloved fiancée is gone, murdered by the whims of Kira.

Her heart drops and her tears continuously fall. She is broken, she is torn, she is shattered. The shards that made up her form scatter into even smaller fragments. She is all shadows and dust and nothing more.

She slips away from the media and the tabloids until she is nothing more than a passing memory ( _a bubbly, adorable daydream_ ). She is inconsequential, insignificant.

Her fiance is— _was was was_ —probably the only one to have captured the world's most elusive criminal. What has she ever done to contribute to the world?

Maybe if she does one final thing to capture the hearts of her adoring fans...to finally let go of the pain...maybe...maybe...

She plans to fall.

Not in love. For love.

( _Perhaps that's what she has always been doing_ ).

.

.

.

She travels to a serene bridge, the water below a darkening hue of blue in light of the sunset. This is where her story ends.

And then, it doesn't.

.

.

.

 **Chapter 2: Everything is White**

He wears all white.

His toys are immaculate, but worn from much abuse.

He's childish and blunt and cold and he's a monster.

( _"You...remind me of someone," she mumbles with all the cognizance of a newly awakened infant. "He was..."_

 _She dares not finish._

 _"L," the boy neatly completes her sentence for her like he's stacking rows upon rows of dominoes in serene succession. He looks up from playing with robots and stares her dead in the eyes. Dead eyes set in a cherubic face. "You may call me L."_ )

.

.

.

When her husband takes over the mantle as L, she is delighted, yet frightened. ( _At least, that's what she remembers. There are far too many blanks in her memory and what little she does remember, the memories are insubstantial and muted—like half forgotten dreams in the early rays of morning_.

 _She doesn't like to admit to herself that she kind of remembers the sense of triumph at L's funeral, the pride and the honor of being the closest to her bringer of light_ ).

Her husband is now dead and the legacy passed down to this little boy.

"I was there when Light Yagami confronted Kira." He says in an offhand manner.

There's something underneath his tone, something only trained actors and liars can only detect—a slight tremor of a false or true emotion rippling under the surface. Through her depression and apathy, Misa struggles to understand, to know why she was taken away from the bridge.

"My condolences."

It's fake.

But it's a well rehearsed lie.

( _She would know. She's been lying for too long_ ).

.

.

.

Days pass and this "L" wants to reopen the investigation of the Second Kira. He doesn't explicitly say it, but Misa has learned to read between the lines ( _be it through poorly written scripts or the lies her husband utters during their fraudulent romance_ ).

"L" ( _or perhaps she should just call him by another letter? Yes, perhaps another letter is in order_ ) tells her that he wants to keep an eye on her. He says that he wants to revisit a few leads on the other Kiras. Misa chooses to ignore how he sounds like a petulant, spoiled child who searches stores for a toy that he's always wanted.

( _A niggling thought at the back of her mind tells her that he's found the jackpot_ ).

"I would like to have you put under observation on site," he says to her. The words are cordial, but she knows that there's no such thing as a choice. "Seeing as you don't have any current commitments—" she withholds a shudder at how... unfeelingly condescending he sounds, " —the best course of action is to start as soon as possible."

The devil may have been in the details, but Misa is already burning in the fires of Hell.

.

.

.

It starts out well enough.

She is not detained or stolen away in the midst of a lazy afternoon.

She is not dragged away suffocating under a man's iron grip.

She is not made to stand in a straitjacket and blindfolded for God knows how long.

His treatment is tame and far more preferable than the original L.

Then, the questioning starts.

.

.

.

She's not stubborn, she's just tired and depressed and anxious and parts of her want to break apart into tiny little pieces that can't be put back together ( _not unlike his puzzle pieces or his legos_ ).

She's slow to speak.

She's slow to anger.

And she's slow to feel and comprehend the simplest of questions.

The sham of an investigation stutters to a grinding halt before it begins.

" **Depressed** ," they say.

" **Dying of a broken heart**."

" **Utterly useless as a Second Kira**."

( _And for some odd reason, she bristles at that. Like a long lost queen or goddess trying to reclaim her crown_ ).

It doesn't matter, she thinks to herself. It will all end soon.

She makes no less than ten suicide attempts in three weeks under the watchful eye of the "world's greatest detective".

"Have you no desire to help rid the world of such a morally bankrupt character?"

She shrugs. Pathetic.

"I've always supported Kira." She pauses, thinking quietly to herself. Her sleepy eyes struggle to become alight with mischief or wit or something resembling that of human emotion. "R?"

"L."

She shrugs again, not really caring, but she hones in on the young man's narrowing of dark eyes and the firm grip that he has on a domino. It's relaxing to know that she still knows people.

Still knows to subtly manipulate.

"I can't let you go if you don't prove—"

"You won't. Not in the long run anyway. Misa is far too valuable to the original investigation and you get to keep Kira's greatest confidant to yourself."

"You admit then, that you are the Second Kira."

Again, she shrugs. Rubs the palms of her hands against her eyes. She blinks against the sudden appearance of stars and refuses to tear.

"Light...was Kira. Wasn't he?"

It's not hard to connect the dots, add the pieces together, or whatever metaphor you prefer. She knows how Matsuda ( _ever dear, ever bumbling idiot Matsuda_ ) stupidly dances—stumbles—around the subject of her husband, how S's ( _or T or Q or P_ ) lips always seem to curl in disgust whenever he talks of him, or how the rest of the investigators generally give her a wide berth.

There is fear in the air and Misa feels like she's drowning in her own sick.

She's not supposed to feel this way, but there's something so intoxicating and addictive to have everyone on their toes.

They're scared of her.

They're scared of her.

 **THEY'RE SCARED OF HER.**

She loves it.

What power she has garnered to turn her name into a brand, into a household name out of nothing ( _out of a scared little girl with shaking hands, unseemly dark hair, and a scene that would have broken her whole_ ) is now magnified exponentially. She's a monster with all the cards and she knows it, they know it, and of course, he knows it.

It's exhilarating.

It's a pity, though. Her fiance would have loved watching this slow game of patience and lack of will.

It's on an unassuming day that she's herded to a blank room with no windows and no color. There's a table and two chairs.

She sits down and for once, they leave her alone.

( _Well, not really. There's always a camera swiveling with the focus of a trained sniper_ ).

She waits.

.

.

.

 **Chapter 3: Interrogation**

He speaks English.

It's been a while, but Misa can recall the English lessons she had taken in school and the nights her loving husband spends with her whenever she convinced him that it would be useful in the future. Sure, she has an accent whenever she speaks and grammatical errors litter her sentences, but she can understand.

What she can't comprehend is why M ( _because she still hasn't decided on a correct letter_ ) chose this psychiatrist to get through to her. Were there not any Japanese psychiatrists available?

Or was this a ploy? A meager tidbit to satiate her curiosity as to where they had taken her? If so, she was now sure that she was in the West.

Dimly, she hears the click of a recording device and a man's monotone voice. Misa struggles to feel something.

His cold, clipped manner reminds her of her late fiance.

"—to discuss your relationships as of late. I hear you have been refusing to eat and experiencing depression?" His words are calm and cool, like gently running water from the tap. It's numbing to the pain that Misa feels. His voice was a backdrop of static—a fitting rhythm to the patterns she absently sees as she stares at the tabletop.

"Miss Amane?"

A pen scratches on paper.

The clink of something metal. Misa doesn't look up to check, but she guesses that her psychiatrist has just folded his spectacles. Regardless, she doesn't look up.

"Miss Amane..." and this time, there's a hint of refined steel behind his voice, a far cry from the calm and the collected veneer he sported from the beginning. "If you're not interested in getting the help you need, I can't help you."

She refuses to speak. Instead, she doodles on the table with her fingers and wishes for something different.

The doctor writes, announces the failure on his recorder, and leaves.

That was the first session.

.

.

.

Once a week ( _or it could be twice a week or once a month, she doesn't know, she doesn't care_ ), Misa is practically dragged from her room and back to the sterile white table and that strange Westerner. He's always there after she arrives, approximately five minutes on the dot.

Each.

And.

Every.

Single.

Time.

Really, it's a detail so minuscule and forgettable, but Misa always remembers. After a number of meetings, she mentally catalogues what she has learned from this strange man with the cold blue eyes and frail, yet decidedly fit physique.

He writes in smooth, detailed strokes—as if he's painting a new picture with every word he writes. No detail goes unnoticed, every stroke is purposeful and practiced.

He looks younger—younger than your everyday doctor—when he takes off his glasses. ( _The occasion is rare and few, but Misa can't help but stare in awe_ ). When she does, though, a pang tugs at her heart and she immediately thinks of brown eyes and crisp shirts just recently pressed.

He never strays from the agenda at hand.

That last one gets on her nerves. Didn't she already make it clear that she wasn't up for any interviews? Stupid Q ( _or C or V or whatever_ ) didn't listen to her ( _just like the Task Force, just like Ryuzakki, just like_ _ **him**_ ). Really, she would have been far more cooperative if he was kinder, but!

It doesn't matter.

The point is...she really, really, really doesn't know what to make of this guy.

And so days and days and days pass and Misa is slowly but surely getting—bored? tired?—something and nothing at the same time.

"Hello again, Ms. Amane. I would like to review some past events concerning—"

"No."

And maybe Misa knows the gravity of the situation, the inherent power she has now. She's switching up the script, completely upending the careful stage directions without so much as remorse.

Adlibbing has never before felt so _good_.

( _Inside, something is shifting. Something is slowly eroding._

 _Inside, something is breaking._

 _Inside, she is slowly creating something and this stranger—this so called doctor—will be the first to see her as she is now._ )

"Pardon?"

"Nope." She says in that flippant, borderline rude manner that she has often observed in American movies. There is something intriguing about making the syllable pop at the end. It reminds her of soda pop tabs being popped open—a careful fail safe measure to both protect and better serve the beverage."Let's talk about something else."

He gives her a look that conveys how much he despises these meetings. Too bad for him, Misa already knows that and decides to switch things up for a bit. If he decides that he does not appreciates her antics, then all the merrier for Misa.

"If that is what you desire. What would you like to talk about?" He opens up to a spare blank page within his notebook and begins to jot things down.

"You. How long will you be questioning me?"

"As I've stated before, our sessions will only last one hour unless specified earlier."

Misa shakes her head, a rueful smile tacked onto her lips like a dart hitting the bullseye on the board.

"Ie," she purposefully slips back into her mother tongue, "I mean...L put you up to this, but I wonder if it's worth it. I don't have any useful information and it's been...quite some time."

He stares at her in surprise.

Was it really shocking that she was somewhat fluent in English? Or was this all an act to get her to reveal more information? Granted, that is the longest she has ever spoken without it sounding like a well rehearsed line. Regardless, this is the most human expression she has seen on his face. It's fascinating to know that he's more than just a robot.

"Just how much do you get paid? By the millions, yes?"

Instead of answering her, the doctor scrutinizes the eagerness in her eyes and the lazy upturn of her mouth. Quickly, as if he is trying to capture this scene forever, he writes a few phrases in his notebook and tells his recorder that he has finished.

He leaves.

.

.

.

Misa thinks she has struck gold.

Every actress worth her salt knows that a reaction—any reaction—is better than none. Not because there was a reaction at all, but that it was a response to what she has done.

Actors in any medium have one job: to convince the audience that the story they're telling is real and compelling. If done right, the audience trembles and cowers at their feet like violin strings being plucked by an experienced virtuouso.

In this case, she just played the part of an earnest mental health patient who lets curiosity get the better of her. It's worth it, though.

Anyway, she needs to take stock of the situation. What _exactly_ did she learn?

She mulls and processes the question in her head, not really noticing that there's a hint of an idea of _life_ awakening in her eyes.

The cameras watch.

.

.

.

The next time he arrives, she's already there with a disarming smile and a list of questions just waiting to be asked.

As the good doctor sets the recorder on the table and his customary notebook to its required open page, she begins asking.

"You're not here of your own free will, right? Or maybe, you're not being paid at all?" Her disarming grin becomes even more potent as the doctor simply presses the recorder on and monotonously states the time and purpose for this recording.

She has forgotten what if feels like to have the upper hand in any situation.

It's nice.

"I bet you did something so terrible that even—"

"Miss Amane, I would sincerely appreciate it if we did not stray from the original intent of these meetings. After all, regardless of my salary, I must fulfill my job." His words are laced with dripping poison while his eyes pierce her to her very core.

Never before has she felt so cowed or so alive.

( _At least, not after_ _ **he**_ _died)._

And just like the manipulative vixen she is, she keeps pushing.

And just like last time, the man ends the session abruptly and leaves.

Misa feels like she has won.

She gets a visit from her least favorite letter of the alphabet a few days later.

.

.

.

A part of her expects it, but another part of her thinks that like most criminals, she would be left to the wayside to be forgotten. What really catches her attention is that she isn't informed of his presence beforehand. How unlike F ( _or G or A or B_ ).

"I hear that you have been disrupting your weekly sessions with Dr. Crane."

"Yeah, and?" She surly asks in her native tongue.

She finds it simply rude that the albino does nothing more than finger one of his puppets and sit on the floor. Looking down on a person has never been so patronizing.

"I was under the impression that you would be willing to cooperate."

"Misa wants to get things over with. What's the problem?"

"Dr. Crane cannot conduct a thorough analysis if you can't control yourself."

"Then tell him to suck it up or get a new investigator!"

The instant Misa says that, she instantly feels regret. There's something dark about her doctor—something that she can't make out, but she is already gathering the clues.

( _And maybe, just maybe, she is no longer standing still._ )

Third L, no matter how sharp his eyes are, does not pick up her subtle ticks.

"He is a licensed psychiatrist—"

"I find it hard to believe that you would find a normal, American psychiatrist who just happens to be holed up here for my benefit. You're keeping something from me!"

"The sooner you provide us with information concerning the Kira Investigation, the sooner we can release you."

"That's the problem!" She has the impulse to wrap her fragile hands around his equally thin neck, but common sense has her stopping. " I have already told you everything you need to know—everything that I stated before in the original investigation. What more can I say?"

The detective chooses not to answer.

"Or are you just keeping me here for some sick, twisted purpose?"

The mildly shocked look on he albino's face is worth her entire period of incarceration. If First L was a closeted pervert, Third L was the complete inverse; he was like a little lamb among wolves.

A bit too quickly for comfort, L recovers.

"Miss Amane, I'll have you know full well that the information you have provided will be considered minuscule compared to the information you will give us in the future."

"And what makes you say that?"

"Simple. I have acquired an object that should jog your memories from a few years ago."

With that, the albino holds up a black notebook with an interesting set of characters inscribed into the front of the cover: Death Note.

.

.

.

Misa wants to laugh.

Misa wants to cry.

A goddess she used to be, but now she is reduced to a groveling peasant grasping wildly at her broken throne.

.

.

.


	3. Book 2: The Psychiatrist

**Book 2**

 **Chapter 1: His Asylum**

Really, Jonathan Crane does not have a choice. After his previous stint as the Scarecrow of Gotham, security at Arkham had increased exponentially. ( _Not that it would have stopped him_ ). He chooses not to leave sooner because the Batman had decided to grace him with enough bruises and scars to last him for the rest of his lifetime.

What fun.

Besides, the former doctor has to recuperate somewhere. What better place to reap the benefits of healthcare and to cause fear along the way?

At least that's what the brunet tells himself as he is carted back to the confines of the wretched domain of several up and coming "super villains".

Days pass like the gears of a well-oiled machine.

And then a little boy dressed in white approaches him.

.

.

.

Jonathan doesn't know why he automatically thinks of the young man as a boy, but that's all he sees. The pajamas are stark white, a bit large on his frail form. White hair ( _like the color of a pure lamb ready for the pyre_ ), perhaps just as light as the clothing, spills from the top of his head like a mop. It is curly...like a child recently leaving his bed. On the ground, across from the boy, a vast assortment of cards have been stacked and placed together to form a mini castle.

Jonathan immediately knows that the boy is not normal.

He is immediately interested.

"I see that you are already psychoanalyzing me, Dr. Crane."

The boy's voice is monotone and dead.

.

.

.

There have been very few times in Jonathan's life where he couldn't get a clear picture of a person's character. There were a few tough cases to crack ( _he shudders to think of the newest John Doe of the lot...his penchant for the theatrics and for chaos were inconceivable_ ), but for the most part, he was more than capable of deciphering most people.

That was not the case for this particular young man.

The albino looks the very image of childishness as he chooses to sit with one leg propped onto the seat of the chair while his left hand twirls a lock of snowy white hair. His right hand toys with a robotic action figure. However, the harder Crane looks, the more he sees the expression of someone far older than the actual portrayal of young adulthood.

His eyes does not merely shine with intelligence—they practically blind with a savant's cunning and intelligence. The former doctor would not have been surprised to realize that this...young man was psychoanalyzing _him_.

What a dangerous game he was going to play.

.

.

.

"Dr. Crane—" ( _And Jonathan swears that his name is dripping with the saccharine sweet mockery. The syllables are barbed and hold fast to his throat, trapping any retorts inside._

 _Immediately, the good doctor is overcome with the flight or fight response._

 _This little boy is not his friend)_.

"—I would assume that you already have an analysis."

"I'm no longer a doctor. Whatever analysis I have would not be considered viable information."

( _Not that he cares about the whole good-doctor-turning-super villain thing, Dr. Crane just wants to get away from this sick freak_ ).

The albino stares passively at the Arkham patient before nodding towards a sheaf of documents that lie like fallen leaves in the middle of autumn. Crane grimaces—it's like they're purposely turning the knife that is already embedded in his side. He, who used to be the taskmaster of the asylum for the criminally insane, is reduced to nothing more than a deranged, narcissistic psychopath.

Idiots.

As Dr. Crane scans the documents, he feels his face becoming stern and cold—the remnants of his past life as administrator coming back full force. Already, he is calculating the advantages and disadvantages of such a proposal. The fine print allows for no loopholes, but he can work around them.

This could work.

It _will_ work.

"I think having some time to think about this proposition is in order. What do you think?"

Dr. Crane smirks at the albino's passive expression.

"You have until tomorrow, Dr. Crane."

.

.

.

He does not see that strange young man after that incident.

At approximately the same time, the next day, Crane finds himself signing a waiver under the watchful eye of a man in a suit. There are no names given, just a cursory glance and a beckoning for the former doctor to follow.

And just like that, the Scarecrow manages to leave Arkham Asylum for what seems to be the final time.

( _He dares not look behind him. After all he that he has done for that wretched institution—for what he has done for the good of the city—he has only been repaid in unnecessary medication and the removal of his authority)_.

.

.

.

 **Chapter 2: His Ladies**

In normal circumstances, it would have been wise to gather previous health records—mental health records if possible—but he has nothing. Nothing more than a spare notebook, a pen, and a recorder. ( _He knows it's all a farce. There are always cameras present and he would not be surprised if he is bugged at all times._

 _Illegal this operation might have been, but they were thorough when handling dangerous criminals_ ).

In other words, he has to start from scratch.

.

.

.

There was once a time, a long time ago, when the former doctor was nothing more than a scrawny boy. He is a part of a diminished part of some Georgian gentry—the bastard child of the black sheep within the family. His childhood is marred by physical and psychological abuse..

Then he sees her.

She is a dark haired beauty—full hips, luscious lips, and a smile that turns heads. She is neither too smart, nor too dull, neither too pretty to be mocked by fellow female classmates nor too plain for the hot blooded males. Jonathan Crane has no means to measure her kindness.

Her name is Sherry Squires.

He thinks that she is kind. She isn't.

He thinks that she is pretty. She isn't.

He thinks that she would never betray him. She does.

But she pays her dues—her and Bo Griggs.

.

.

.

( _Sometimes, when the moon is full and his eyes are wide with glassy fragility, he can see the smoke. He can see the flames. He can smell the heady, intoxicating scent of flesh burning amid the equally sweet scent of liquor._

 _But he remembers the high keens and wails of two young passengers taken before their time._

 _As he lies in bed, there is a crooked smile on his face._

 _He likes to hear the screams_ ).

.

.

.

She is beautiful...in a tired sort of way.

But it's not her apparent beauty that has him transfixed.

No, it's the image of another young woman juxtaposed on top of his patient.

Sherry Squires.

That's all Jonathan Crane sees when he first lays eyes on his new patient. Her hair is limp and hangs around her face in unruly strands, but they are dark and warm. ( _Further observation shows that her hair was a bit blonde at the ends)._ Her face is pale, eyes too big and too dark. Her lips are thin and unsmiling.

Still, that memory of Sherry is potent in his mind.

How maddening. How unprofessional.

He proceeds with the session.

.

.

.

Over the next few sessions, he starts to _feel_ something for this poor, pathetic specimen. Her eyes are still dull; hair stringy and greasy. She is not treated poorly, but she is not held in high esteem. Their sessions are nothing more than him talking to a corpse. Answers, if he even has the strength to coax them out of her, are short and drawled out—as if she were waltzing about in a dream.

The more time he spends with her, the more he wants to inject some life into her.

Hahahahaha, inject.

( _Deep within the dark recesses of his mind, a Scarecrow laughs and licks his lips in waiting_ ).

.

.

.

 **Chapter 3: His Analysis**

He is allowed free reign in two rooms: his living quarters and his _office._

Crane knows he is being monitored, but then again, his employer ( _all pure white innocence like freshly fallen snow_ ) drives a hard bargain. Besides, he is a doctor underneath his mad scientist endeavors—even he has the propriety to succumb to the feelings of safety and monotony once in a while.

( _He is utterly grateful that he is actually given a kitchen to prepare his own meals, a small library, and limited internet access_ ).

It is disturbingly easy to work under the eye of cameras and bugged devices. If anything, he scoffs at the idea of his employer and his henchmen poring over the feed of him acting in the most mundane ways possible.

( _Scrawling down notes for some "basic biochemistry", perusing his lackluster observations concerning that Amane girl, and staring off into space._

 _Sometimes, space talked back to him_ ).

.

.

.

One day, when he finds himself far more entertained by the disembodied voice cackling in his head, _she_ changes up the rules.

It shouldn't have come as a surprise.

Even if she did show signs of severe depression ( _nothing that a few medications and open air couldn't fix_ ), she should not have the agency to actually engage him in semi-intelligent conversation. Her sudden eagerness to open up and talk is like watching a corpse reanimating itself and pretending to be alive.

It is both fascinating and horrifyingly repulsive.

Dr. Crane likes to have his patients pliant and predictable, thank you very much.

Regardless, there is something...something premeditated or _knowing_ about her.

It was like she knew that he has no choice. That he has absolutely no control over his situation anymore.

And that's what rankles him the most.

After years of taking charge of a reputable institution and gaining the fear and respect of lower class civilians in order to manufacture a drug that could revolutionize the world...it is all but stripped away. All the power, all the prestige. It is all gone and he has nothing but a worn cot in a mental institution and a fractured mind to show for it.

And just like any old fool, he allows this-this lowlife woman to see through his icy facade!

He feels something stir within.

It is a tendril, a faint wisp of a stronger emotion, but he knows this particularly quite well.

It is fear.

.

.

.

It is a fluke. It has to be. She is probably too intuitive for her own good. Yet, she catches his weak spot, like a young child capturing a butterfly within a net, his innate desire to control—to be the one to instill fear into others.

He vows to make her fear him.

.

.

.

The next meeting, Crane is ready. He aches for the feel of worn and scratchy burlap, for the feel of a suitcase swinging from his right hand. Instead, he has to make do with a cheap notebook, a pen, and a voice recorder. No matter, he thinks maliciously.

He didn't progress from a psychiatrist to the Scarecrow because of a mask.

( _He always wears a mask. This time he will finally confront her without any pretense_ ).

She sits there with a dreamy, glazed expression as she doodles onto the table with a slender finger. Her pointer finger's nail, he notices, has been chewed close to the hypochonium.

It is time for a new course of action.

As soon as he sits in his customary chair, she gracefully looks up at him, opens her mouth—

"Session six. Today, we will discuss childhood memories and aspirations. Dr. Jonathan Crane is present along with patient Miss Misa Amane."

"You can call me Misa, you know. We might as well be friends since we're learning so much about each other."

The psychiatrist peers down at her, disdain no longer hidden behind the glint of his spectacles.

"I think not. Now, tell me about your childhood. Any memories good or bad? Anything that sticks out?"

He is brusque and short with her. Today, he will not play the part of a cat playing with a mouse. No, that is reserved for—

Well, he need not elaborate further.

Now, he will let the Scarecrow out to have his fun.

.

.

.

( _He leaves that session with pride imbuing his every step, a serene smile upturning the corners of his lips. He is the Scarecrow and he has lived up to his name._

 _Never mind that there is a young woman whispering pleas in her native tongue._

 _Never mind that there are clumps of hair scattered all over the table from when she tore her scalp._

 _Never mind that there is a camera watching—with no one coming to help._

 _He is the Scarecrow. He is victorious._

 _He no longer sees Sherry Squires_ ).


	4. Book 3: The Twelfth Letter

**Book 3**

 **Chapter 1: His Quandary**

"I hear you have made progress with Miss Amane," the albino murmured. He studiously stacked dice on top of a tower, his deft fingers never faltering. "I expect a full report within the week."

"No need for that," Crane snapped. "I have already compiled all of Amane's notes and transcripts of the recordings. If you've been paying attention to your surveillance cam—"

"Which I have. After viewing the footage, I have come to the conclusion that you're withholding information." Finally, the young man turned to face the brunet. Although he was seated on the floor, Crane couldn't help but feel a tingle of fear race up his spine. No eyes should ever have that much emptiness. "If I recall, you were to approach the situation with an open mind; a neutral third party, if you will. That is why we gave you little to no information. However, reports have noted that your relationship with her have gone over and beyond the boundaries of patient and doctor."

Crane straightened his back and steeled his resolve. He had already known that everything would get shot to hell sooner or later. He just hadn't expected to be confronted by his employer, the mastermind behind the whole operation. From what he had gleaned from the Japanese woman, he had preferred to keep away: face to face meetings were rare. They were often spurred by a crucial event.

How interesting, he thought.

"What evidence proves that I have compromised my position? I did what you requested. Getting closer to her was nothing more than a ploy to gain more information. Furthermore, it's only natural for a psychiatrist and patient—"

"I firmly disagree," his employer's voice cut in with nary a change in volume or tone. "Your recent sessions have exceeded the time allotted. Before, your sessions, often terminated after a quarter of an hour. I wonder...what brought that on?"

"I would assume that getting the patient to speak longer would warrant congratulations, not an interrogation."

"Indeed. But at that point, you're no longer just a third party. You're an accomplice."

Crane finally swallowed the bile that had gathered at the back of his throat.

"I assure you, I haven't the slightest—"

"Miss Misa Amane is one of the world's most notorious serial killers to ever walk this earth. Any information you have censored from your final analysis will be regarded as aiding and abetting a criminal. As such, you will be treated accordingly."

Slowly, his employer turned back to his tower of dice.

"This wasn't an interrogation at all," Crane breathed in grudging respect. "This was a warning!"

The albino only nodded.

"You best heed it. One week."

.

.

.

 **Chapter 2: The Doll Collection**

"Finally got some time for your little doll, right?" The former pop idol plopped onto the floor across the albino like an indignant playmate. She had easily lapsed back in her native tongue; a move to ensure that if this L were to fight her, he would do so on her own terms. "Where has all the time gone? It's been months since I've last seen you!"

"I will assure you right now, Miss Amane, any and all pleasantries have been ignored so far. If you continue to behave childishly, I will be forced to restrain you by any means necessary."

That shut her up pretty quickly. For a moment, there was a brief hint of panic and recognition—a memory.

"So you remember."

"Your predecessor? Your investigation that led to the death of Kira? The death of my fiancee?" She scoffed and fell on her back like a surely schoolgirl. "I remember everything."

After a moment, there came another angry retort.

"I want to kill you. I really do."

"What's stopping you?"

"The fact that you have guns trained on me?"

"I do hope that your remembering won't inhibit your progress so far with your psychiatrist."

"And ruin my chances of getting revenge? Sure, why not? Got nothing else to live for."

The brunette lay on her back as L busied himself with his large assortment of toys. Once in a while, he would destroy one of his creations to make room for newer ones, which caused a brief ruckus that caused Misa to scowl and wrinkle her nose. Finally, after the fifth time L decided to renovate, Misa sat up straight and made as if to throttle or poke the albino. However, common sense took over at the last possible moment. Instead, she nearly took one of his robot toys and fiddled with some of the parts.

"If memory serves correct and I'm pretty sure it will, I don't recall the previous L to be so irritating."

"If memory serves me correctly," the albino retorted in an almost playful manner, "my predecessor was your fiancee."

She rolled her eyes.

"You know what I mean." She chewed her lip and focused once more as her chosen bauble. "He kidnapped me before a photoshoot, right our first meeting. He had me convinced that it was some crazy stalker!" She brokenly laughed. "I was crazy; I broke so many times during that intermittent period. But you know what really scares me, L?"

The albino stilled his movements. For a moment, one of his previous buildings stood tall, yet unfinished.

"I lost about two months. Over the course of the investigation, about two years. When I renounced ownership, I lost four years of who I was. For the sake of an ideal, I halved my life twice." She peered at her enemy—her fiancee's last rival. "How much time will I lose under your care?"

Two pairs of dark eyes stared at each other. Between them, there was an insurmountable chasm of difference. There was no way that there could be a bridge to unite the two faces.

"As long as it takes."

She stood.

"You're nothing more than a copy, you know that? I bet you're also a pervert. I'm nothing more than a puppet—a trophy to show off to make sure Kira's reign is finally over."

L ignores her.

.

.

.

 **Chapter 3: Her Memories**

"I think the scariest thing that ever happened to me was when I was harassed by a crazed stalker."

Crane quirked an eyebrow.

"Harassed?"

"He had a knife," the young woman replied nonchalantly. She spoke as if the mention of a knife was akin to saying that the sky was blue or ducks waddled as they walked—toneless and subdued. "It happened late at night and I remember...I remember it was after I went to a cafe and drank some tea." She smiled to herself in spite of the pain. "Mint. Then I decided to take a shortcut home and everything was so peaceful...Until this guy just happened to be standing in the road. He was waiting for me."

For once, Dr. Crane had forgone his documentation in favor of simply listening. From past experiences as a fully licensed psychiatrist, he knew that most patients were more receptive to a listening ear.

"I thought that I could walk past him—go on my way. But that was before he started yelling at me, before began swinging his knife. There was manic destruction in his eyes. The way he moved… I-I tried to talk to him, but he began screaming such awful, horrible things…"

Crane nodded, but inside, he was brimming with questions.

 _Did you scream? Did you see your life crashing around you? Perhaps you saw the cliched "life flashing before your eyes"?_

"I…" Misa faltered and glanced at her hands. How white and slender they seemed. She could see the blue tint of her veins pulse behind the thin barrier of her skin. "For some odd reason, I couldn't scream. A part of me felt like I couldn't move. Why couldn't I move? I held up my arms to protect myself and suddenly, he just-he just collapsed!"

In a small voice, she continued.

"I took my chance and left. I thought for years after that it was nothing more than a coincidence, but Kira…"

"The rise of Kira gave you hope. You adored him."

"I still do."

"I find that this is a breakthrough." Crane congratulated her. Inwardly, he preened with pride that he was able to get such vital information. "Thank you for—"

"I don't want you to give any of this information to the one who hired you." Her voice was commanding, regal even. Try as he might, he couldn't use the words whiny or childish to accurately describe her. At that moment, Misa Amane was his equal.

She had known fear and lived through it.

That didn't mean he would automatically acquiesce to her demand.

"And why would that be? I have no reason-"

"But you like me. You didn't like your employer."

Now that was true, but Crane didn't want to admit that.

"Why don't you like my employer? Tell me, what did he ever do to you?"

His patient's eyes spoke volumes of fear—the Scarecrow within licked his lips.

.

.

.

"Do you have recurring nightmares of this event?"

"I used to. Back before Kira rose up and became popular."

"Do you feel that you lacked control over the situation back then? That maybe there was something more to be done?"

Misa shrugged.

"I was really stupid and reckless... but I'm alive."

Dr. Crane looked up from his notes, startled at her conviction.

"Tell me, what do you fear more?"

She smiled a little in melancholy.

"Unrequited love, being alone."

Dr. Crane snorted.

Utterly useless, but still pivotal to her character.

He wrote it down.

.

.

.

"Tell me, why are you so important to my employer... Furthermore, why do you wish to censor our sessions? What makes you so afraid of him? Or rather… What makes him so afraid of you?"

"What do you know about the Kira Case?"

Crane narrowed his eyes, a look of intrigue piercing his ice blue eyes. For a moment, he was reliving moments of a few years ago when INTERPOl and L had went on a wild goose chase after the elusive mass murderer. At that time, Crane was more or less indifferent on the matter. Crime rates were always at an all-time high in Gotham-what difference would it make if a few dropped dead due to a heart attack? Crane was already experimenting with his own brand of justice. If he recalled correctly, he and that bossy little DA exchanged words on the whole Kira debacle...

"Nothing more than the average citizen. I assume the situation is moot considering that there wasn't any further details for years."

The young woman nodded her head in affirmation.

"Not surprising. L, no matter what form he takes, was always secretive."

"You speak as if you know him."

"I did. Or, I do now." Crane quirked an eyebrow at that, but he let it go. "Regardless, I was one of the prime suspects for the Second Kira during the original investigation back in 2005. I was taken away, tortured, and questioned with most of my human rights taken away. When I was cleared, my fiancee took up the mantle as L due to complications. Unfortunately, in the process of finally capturing Kira, my fiancee was killed."

Her eyes searched Crane's, as if looking for some hidden epiphany. As it were, the American felt that his brain had self destructed. Were these the ramblings of a depressed woman mourning the loss of a loved one? She had severe depression and was too impulsive at times, but that in no way could have necessitated...that. Which left two other options. One, she had revealed case sensitive information that redefined the profile he was steadily compiling. Or two, she was lying through the skin of her teeth.

Still, the very prospect that she was also a prime suspect for the Second Kira… and her alleged fiancee had been L and had been murdered when he had caught Kira… It was all highly suspect.

"It would have been a rocky marriage between a staunch Kira supporter and the stand in for L." He tread carefully. He deliberately left one of his burning questions unsaid. It was all a theory in his head, but if she answered in a way that confirmed his suspicions…

"Oh, yes." She relaxed in her chair in a—relaxed? resigned? disappointed?—manner. "That is, of course, if he hadn't died.

"Who?" And Crane is barely whispering now. Hardly breathing. "Your husband? Kira?"

"Oh, Doctor…" She's laughing. Her eyes are laughing and mocking and jeering at him ( _oh how Sherry Squires loved to laugh so prettily with her painted face_ ). "Why couldn't he be both?"

.

.

.

 **Chapter 4: Their Final Ending**

"I assume you've sent me all of the information pertinent to your findings." Near didn't need to look up from his impressive kingdom built from cards to see that his American psychiatrist had nodded. To be frank, it had been a less than an affirmative gesture considering the man been acting jittery as of late… but it didn't take much to deduce why.

The Second Kira had finally broken.

"To be clear, I mean _all_ of your findings."

"Everything is complete."

Did he detect a touch of nervousness? It was far cry from when he had first employed the psychiatrist. Was he broken as well? The cold, hard, arrogant Scarecrow had become nothing more than a man with a deteriorating mind.

How curious, Near thought as he twirled some of his locks. But, it needn't warrant further questioning. The doctor had fulfilled his orders and it was time to give back.

"As our agreement says, I am to give you a new name, safe passage out of the country, and a satisfactory payment to start your new life. A visa and a passport has already been included." A beat. "Thank you for your cooperation and discretion considering the circumstances."

Near had nothing more to say.

Jonathan did.

"At least tell me this, why go through all of this trouble? You're a world renowned detective, you could have put all the clues together without a designated psychiatrist. Why?"

Near finally looked at him.

"Closure."

.

.

.

"You know."

"The evidence was always there, I've already known."

"But now you know for sure."

"So what will it be? Firing squad? Electric chair? Lethal injection? Will I rot in prison?" Ever for the flair for dramatics, the young woman tried to flail her arms about like hysteric maiden. All she could was move the handcuffs about her wrists—so thin and so frail. "Or will I be kept here? Will I just be another doll to add to your collection? A trophy you can show off, huh?"

"I have no intention of demeaning you like that."

"But you have thought of it, haven't you?" Her eyes flashed and her fists curled at her sides. " Why else am I still alive? You're practically above the law. In fact, you are the law. You could do anything you want."

Near nodded.

"I could and I will. Given the circumstances, that being the Kira Case has already been closed officially, I have chosen to let you go."

The former Second Kira stilled.

"What?"

"You have the choice of returning as Misa Amane, former pop idol and actress. Or, you have the choice of entering a new life."

"What makes you so sure that I won't kill you?"

"You have no Death Note. What memory you have now will disappear without further exposure to the Death Note. Pretty soon, you will no longer be the Second Kira."

"I knew it. You just don't like broken toys."

Was she ruefully smiling? Or was it just distorted perception?

"That may be so, but I must thank you for your cooperation, Miss Misa Amane. You are free to make your choice within three days."

"You know…" She began lightly. "You can be so annoying, but you're a lot more merciful than I give you credit for."

She pecked him on the cheek.

"That's a thank-you-kiss...L."

The guards herd her to the door, but for the briefest of moments, Near has to quash down the urge to tell her his true letter.

He doesn't in the end.

Instead, he vows to help her bear her future burden...to prevent future calamity, of course.


	5. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

They don't call him doctor anymore, but he's still qualified.

No, what they usually call him is Professor Keane.

The students here know too much and talk too little. Physical abuse is rare-psychological warfare is the preferred modus operandi of the many geniuses that take up residence in the House. It was practically unheard of to not have psychiatrist on hand… especially not since that incident back with a certain A…

Regardless, when he had agreed to a new life, he was instantly offered a position at an orphanage in England. All he had to was cut off all ties and renounce his villainy. After many years of dealing with insane criminals, he thought that supervising children would be a walk in the park.

He was wrong.

The children were broken. Rebelling. Chaotic. Hellions the lot of them.

And he enjoyed it.

At first, he had been leery about the arrangement. Right out of the gate, L's men had offered him a job that seemed too perfect. A chance to practice his profession and live without fear of the Bat Man? The psychiatrist suspected that everything seemed to fall into place a little readily—as if everything was already planned.

Of course, there was no place in his schedule for such useless thoughts when he had to update the psychological files of both present and incoming students who came to the House. There were approximately two dozen students and a handful of staff when he had first arrived. However, despite the influx of new prodigies joining the ranks, the students' members had dwindled to a modest eighteen.

Some of them had passed their majority and had to seek their occupations elsewhere. Others were deemed too unstable to continue their rigorous training.

Despite any misgivings, the psychiatrist found that he didn't mind the workload. It kept him busy and he found himself looking forward to meeting with most of the students. Picking apart their psyches one moment and then discussing biochemistry the next was...nice. Altogether, he was didn't the need to talk down to the children here-they were all like him.

As for biochemistry, he had expressed an interest in the former chemistry professor. He was an old, brittle man who had been hand selected by Mr. Wammy himself. For over two decades, he had faithfully served the House, but it was a time for change. Once the old chemistry professor caught wind of the psychiatrist's penchant for experimentation, they had talked for several days as the prospect of the psychiatrist succeeding him. It had taken a lot of convincing, but the psychiatrist had finally given in.

Within a month, the psychiatrist took up his mentor's mantle, and realized that he could easily a control a classroom with stunning ease. He was no longer just the stern psychiatrist who actually listened to the students, but now he was Professor Keane.

The child arrives on Christmas Day.

Not one to mindlessly celebrate such useless holidays ( _neither did the children, but they were a whole different matter_ ), Professor Keane had gladly volunteered to retrieve the newest addition to the House. The drive to the airport was nothing of note. Snow littered the unplowed parts of the streets, decorations hung everywhere, and some people were carolling. Honest to God, it was all so unbearably, endearingly annoying.

Once he had reached the airport, one of the House's private contacts led a young child no older than ten towards his car. The child had deep brown hair and almond shaped eyes the color of deep chocolate. She wore nondescript clothing underneath a bulky grey winter coat. As a random act of charity to fully welcome the girl, he pulled a spare handkerchief from his coat. He had noticed that her nose was red and she would subtly sniffle ever so often.

The ride back was mostly mundane. Professor Keane had utilized that time to brief the young child of the House's history, the legacy of L, and what her main objective would be as a prodigy within the House. Once in a while, the professor would pause in case the child would like to question any of the information offered. Instead, the brunette kept her mouth tightly closed, posture tense, and eyes flitting back and forth as if contemplating escape.

The psychiatrist within licked his chops at the prospect of dissecting her fears and her past. The newly reborn professor wondered about her ability to keep up the with the rest of her peers. As of right now, she proved to be more of an observer, but there was still a calm, calculated grace that belied her true nature. Given time, she could be one of the best students in the House—she could even qualify as a successor.

Professor Keane had to snap himself out of his reverie.

"Now, before we continue, it is best to remember that your old life is to be discarded. You will no longer bear your given name. Your place of birth and upbringing mean nothing to you. Once you enter the House, you are free to choose your new name." Professor Keane paused for a moment. "No one bears the letter L as of this moment."

In the rearview mirror, Professor Keane saw the child's eyes furrow. Finally, a question.

"Might I...might I choose a name that relates to my old one?"

Her eyes were filled with conviction. Professor Keane barely hid his smirk as he brusquely nodded. Good, the child had assessed and learned. None of that crying, emotional nonsense he had to put up with sometimes. Already he was seeing her name ( _whichever name she might choose_ ) as one of the tap ranks.

"Then...I choose Luminary. My name is Luminary."

Professor Keane nodded as he finally pulled up to the clandestine House.

"Welcome to Wammy's House."

And maybe, just maybe…

If the good professor just happens to stumble upon the abandoned records of a newly orphaned child of a former Japanese idol...well…

He always wanted an apprentice.


End file.
